Maybe Jimmy Carter Can Intermediate Next Time Lawn Talks Break Down

I say to the kid:

“Mow the lawn.”

The kid says to me:

“How much?”

I say, “Nothing.”

And she laughs.

I say she should mow the lawn because she lives in the house the lawn surrounds.

This makes her eyes roll up so hard that she almost loses consciousness.

I point out that we need to improve our productivity if we are going to keep up.

She wants to know who we are trying to keep up with.

I say the Joneses.

She grasps this concept immediately, being in junior high and a member of the Gap aristocracy and all.

We negotiate.

I offer $5.

She wants $20

I go to $7.50.

She counters at $15.

I start telling about when I was a kid, and she immediately agrees to the $7.50.

I assume we have an agreement.

We don’t.

She has issues:

About her hair.

About sweating.

About her friends seeing her.

I say mow at night.

She asks about a late-shift differential.

We continue to bargain.

She wants to know about fringe benefits.

I point out she already receives food, clothing, shelter, full medical, 24-hour maid and chauffeur service, and a weekly allowance.

She wants a 401(k).

Oh:

And she wants assurances none of the lawn-care work will be out-sourced.

Out-sourced?

You know, she says, like hiring the dweeb down the street to do the trimming, or buying a mulching mower that would eliminate the need for raking.

This becomes a sticking point.

The discussions get heated.

I call for a 30-day cooling-off period.

She is not, she says icily, “jiggy” with that.

I threaten to cut off her allowance.

She threatens a homework slowdown.

I suggest we seek the services of an in-house arbitrator.

She charges her mother has a documented record as a proven management lackey.

Talks break off.

There is pressure on both sides.

She is forced to forgo a back-to-school sale.

Neighbors are circulating petitions about the condition of the front lawn.

Talks resume.

There is movement:

She agrees to stop calling up the Teamsters’ Web site.

I promise never to hire the dweeb down the street.

As a show of good faith, she promises to stop debating, challenging and arguing about every, single, little thing.

This makes my eyes roll up so hard that I almost lose consciousness.

* Jim Shea is a columnist at the Hartford Courant. To reach him write to Jim Shea, Hartford Courant, 285 Broad St., Hartford, CT 06115.